


Impossible Persuasion

by Dustbunnygirl



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Light Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6063511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh hell, Clara thinks.  Heaving bosoms and straining bodices.  Her life's become a cliched Regency romance novel.  Or at the very least, cliched Regency porn.  Appropriate, though, all things considered.</p>
<p>This fic was requested/demanded by a friend in response to the two comments Clara made this season about Jane Austen.  She had to wait three months for it, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impossible Persuasion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ProlificPen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProlificPen/gifts).



Clara Oswald has been here before - not the when or the general geographic where or even the specific who, but the situation. She has definitely been in this situation before, but she can't put her finger on an exact memory of when. It's funny, really; like a lot of things in her life since meeting the Doctor, since jumping into his timestream and getting blown into countless little pieces of herself, this manages to somehow feel new and familiar all at once. Fresh and old-hat. Current and a memory. Of course that's impossible. Then again, so is she.

Only impossible girls probably find themselves in Jane Austen's bed, after all. Or maybe only THE Impossible Girl does.

They are in Jane's bed. Seated next to each other in the middle of it, face to face. Jane is in her dressing gown, a pale yellow cotton garment laced together at the neckline, thick enough to give the illusion of modesty, thin enough to settle over the hollows and curves beneath in an obvious and suggestive way that's only helped by how the flickering candlelight plays with the shadows in the room. Clara is overdressed in comparison. She never made it to her own bed, let alone her own pajamas.

"Clara?" Jane's soft hand cups her cheek, equal parts concern and caress. So soft, so petite and gorgeous and gentle, like the voice that speaks her name. "You looked like you'd run off with the fairies for a moment. Is everything all right?"

Clara closes her eyes and lets a lazy, reassuring smile slide across her half-parted lips. "Oh, no. Things are miles beyond just all right. 'All right' is an understatement." She breathes in the subtle floral scent coming from Jane's hair and skin, the verdant bitterness of the tea still lingering on her breath. Clara knows those lips still carry the taste of sugary, milky pekoe and strawberry tart. There's something else, too, something dark and primal on the air, faint and coy and so damned intoxicating when she manages to catch a hint of it. It's so familiar and unknown and thrilling that she can't form proper words in response to Jane's question. She's too overcome by the desperate need bubbling up in her, fueled by that fleeting something she can't quite name. When she gives in to the urge to steal that first tease of a kiss - a brush of lips, a tease of tongue tracing Jane's bottom one - Jane's part in hungry relief and Clara suddenly remembers what that something is called.

Desire.

It's like a drug, that sudden, swift need ignited by the willing lips and daring tongue meeting hers move for move. The more kisses she gets, the more daring Jane becomes, the more Clara wants. The more she wants, the more she also wants to give. She half-expects reluctance or timidity, curious naiveté at the very least when a woman tries to snog her past reason in her own bed. Then she remembers the stories about Jane and the young man she was rumored to have had a sordid affair with before his family sent him away. She also remembers the theory that it wasn't exactly a young man, either. But those aren't the sorts of stories that make it into the history books or onto Wikipedia.

She remembers something else, too: her hand. Not its existence - she isn't that far gone - but its current location against the warm swell of Jane's breast. She can feel the other woman's heart beating a frantic rhythm beneath her fingers. Clara isn't sure if the quick, shallow breathing making Jane's chest heave temptingly against her gown is excitement or the half-hearted constraints of her bodice. (Oh hell, Clara thinks. Heaving bosoms and straining bodices. Her life's become a cliched Regency romance novel. Or at the very least, cliched Regency porn. Appropriate, though, all things considered.). She knows how to help, though, whatever the cause: her hand slides down from its soft perch, taking the long road between Jane’s breasts to reach the ineffectual laces that stand as the only real boundary between them. Jane drags in a sharp breath and expels it as a moan.

Clara's fingers fumble at the ties, part excitement, part issue with the bloody knot, part distraction brought on by Jane's teeth at her ear lobe, her jaw, her neck. She has to stop once she's finally got the process underway, not to untangle the stays but to dip her head down to dart her tongue over a pert, pleadingly hard nipple peaking out from the growing slack of the neckline. Payback for the distraction. She's rewarded by a breathy cry and the wanton arch of Jane's back, which only helped that same nipple free itself further. "More," tumbles off her lover's lips as her fingers tangle themselves up in handfuls of Clara's hair.

Clara gently urges Jane's hands free and guides her back onto the bed with a soft push. She keeps hold of one end of the ribbon barely still strung through the eyelets on the gown and it pulls free as Jane sinks back. Jane's gown gapes open at the chest, her dark nipples puckering upwards in silent plea. Clara looks at the ribbon in her hand and a slow, wicked grin slides free. Jane's left eyebrow arches in silent question. Clara's grin only widens. Without a word, she stretches to rest Jane's arms over her head, then weaves the ribbon between and around her wrists.

"This hardly seems fair," Jane says, her playful pout edged with expectation. She weakly tugs at the bonds, barely straining the ribbon.

"Trust me, you won't be complaining in a minute." Clara finishes the binding up with a pretty bow, then sits back on her heels between Jane's legs to appreciate the salacious view her captive presented. Her eyes take in the tantalizing tease of the open gown and the skin left bare by it. They're also drawn to the hem, bunched just below her knees and flirtatious in its innocent promise of what remains hidden. Clara's hand slides up Jane's shin until it reaches the edge of the light material, then follows the shape of her leg beneath it. As her hand travels higher, she leans forward, moving over her prone conquest; as her fingers skim further and further along the soft, warm skin of Jane's inner thigh, the other woman's breathing quickens and her teeth worry her bottom lip. When Clara's fingers sink past the soft, spring hair and find damp, eager warmth waiting for them, her tongue darts at that same needy nipple again. Jane moans out Clara's name as Clara's fingers stroke their way to Jane's clit and her tongue traces the full swell of one of Jane's breasts. 

Clara's fingers find an easy rhythm, her thumb strumming the hungry nub of nerves, her other fingers buried in those tight, gripping folds. Jane writhes beneath her, rocking into every caress, gasping with every thrust, crying out when Clara's teeth gently grip her opposite nipple then lathe it with her tongue. She is a loud, responsive lover, Jane; it's not hard to know what she likes, and she likes every touch, every stroke, every caress. She likes them loudly, vocally, eagerly; Clara can feel her quivering with the growing, inevitable, desperately-sought release.

And that's when Clara stops. Her fingers still; her tongue slides back into her mouth. She sits up slowly. Her hand rests almost innocently against Jane's thigh. It could have passed for innocently, anyway, except it's still warm and wet from where it's just been. Jane pauses mid-writhe and looks up, confused and disappointed. "But..."

"Don't worry," Clara says, sliding downJane's body until her head hovers over her lap. "Just remembered I passed up dessert and need somethin' a little sweet." With a grin, she pulls the gown over her head and lets her tongue pick up where her fingers had just left off. With long, rough licks; with quick flicks of her tongue, a slow suckle of her clit, Clara works her lover back toward the precipice. Her fingers find their rhythm again while her tongue alternates between slow teases and hungry assaults. Jane rocks her hips against Clara's mouth and fingers and begs for her not to stop; to never, ever stop. And when the final moment comes, Jane screams out Clara's name loud enough that it echoes in the otherwise quiet room.

Eventually, Clara makes her way back up Jane's body, kissing any exposed flesh she finds along the way. Jane arches up to catch Clara's lips when they're close enough and the kiss they share is full of a desperate hunger that's only half satisfied. While they kiss, Clara undoes the bow binding Jane's hands and chuckles into the kiss.

"M'surprised you didn't break it," she says, dragging one end of the ribbon across each of Jane's nipples in turn. Jane pounces while Clara is distracted watching the darker skin harden and stretch upward towards its sweet tormentor. When Clara is caught beneath her a moment later, Jane grabs the ribbon and grins wickedly down at her prisoner. 

"I have uses yet for it myself," she says, stretching the length out between her hands. “If you’ve time, of course.”

“Time is somethin’ definitely on our side right now,” Clara says before Jane’s lip claim hers again.


End file.
